Shades of Grey
by fictionlover6060
Summary: Things are neither good or bad, it is only perspective. That was our first lesson. He taught us to think in shades of grey.
1. To Be Washed Away

**1- To Be Washed Away**

The world was silent around me, only broken by the tapping of rain and the periodic rumble of thunder. I counted raindrops and watched them race. My eyes followed them raindrops on their path across the faded wood of the bench where I was sitting, for lack of something else to do with my time.

_One…_

It must have been quite the sight, but nobody was there to stare at the girl sitting on a park bench in the middle of a rainstorm.

_Two…_

And maybe it was better that way.

_Three…_

But if they had been looking, they would have seen drenched curls swaying around a pale face, twisting into dark coffee eyes. They would have seen the way she sat, still and listless, with her legs pulled tightly into her chest. They would have watched her fingers tap an idle tune on the rotting wood with pity in their eyes, wondering why she was merely sitting there, letting the rain wash her away.

_Four…_

And they would have been right.

I smile rancorously to myself.

They would always wonder, and they would come close, but never quite close enough.

_Five…_

Then again, maybe they _would_ fail notice.

People have the uncanny ability to ignore abnormalities, and to a greater extent, the problems and conditions of the people around them.

And even if they did notice, I would have to persuade them to care, and that would only last a moment.

_Six…_

I let those thoughts fly away, in favor of ones less volatile.

I try, even if I know they are still stored somewhere in my head, waiting to catch me unawares before attacking my already fragile mentality.

They always reminded me of moths for some reason. The white ones with holes in the wings, appearing to flutter around without any decipherable pattern. The ones that always slip through the seams and catch you off-guard.

Those creatures that remind you life is a cruel impatient thing.

_Seven…_

My eyes turned up to the rain, letting it run down my face.

_Eight…_

I had always loved it, the rain. Even when I hadn't realized it.

_Nine…_

And is it so wrong to want a small comfort as you say goodbye?

_Ten…_

If only it were as easy as simply being washed away.

_Eleven…_

My smile was sad and bitter, one of a girl who has seen too much and too little. Of a dreamer that woke up too quickly. Of a teenage girl who believed love would conquer all.

_Twelve…_

And yet, I was done crying. I had been for a while. All that is left is a lingering exhaustion and the last flickers of determination.

_Thirteen…_

And so I was ready.

_Fourteen…_

I felt the fire burn in my eyes, filling my body with resolve. My back straightened and my neck stretched until my head was held high. My legs uncurled from my body and touched the ground.

_Fifteen…_

My hands unclenched and I stood slowly, gracefully, and walked away.

_Sixteen…_

The trees created a cage around the area, ominously draping over my head and encompassing my vision. I slipped in among them, weaving my way through the twisted maze.

_Seventeen…_

The sky was dark and the world seemed faded somehow. The only sound was the tune created by the crash of the thunder, twisting its way around the harmony of the drumming rain.

_Eighteen…_

My feet found their own path through the endless expanse of wood and leaves, moving silently, carefully. I had learned my lesson the first time. Listen. Wait. Never make the first mistake.

_Nineteen…_

I trailed my hand along the rough bark, knowing the rain would wash my trace away. Not that it would matter. It wouldn't be long.

_Twenty…_

I continued walking, my soft sigh lost in the howling wind.

_Twenty-one…_

The air thickened around me and the silence seemed deafening. Heavy tension stilled the wind and I was suddenly breathing water. Tension was closely related to humidity, it appeared. The small crazed smiled leaked across my lips. Why not? I accepted it easily; I no longer had the time to question everything. So, I decided to play the game. I paused, leaning against a tree, simply waiting. Watching. Knowing something more was out there. There always seemed to be. One last piece on the board.

_Twenty-two…_

The quick burst of light from the sky illuminated his body. My smile twisted. He was just on time. One raindrop for each year of my life. I can stop counting now…stop counting.

I knelt, my knees digging into the muddy path, and waited.

I didn't hear him. I didn't see him. I wasn't expecting to. So I just waited.

I didn't flinch when he reached to touch me. Not even when his calloused palm cradled my jaw.

His touch was gentle, tilting my face to look at him.

He didn't expect me to lock my gaze at his feet.

He was wearing black boots.

He once more lifted my chin, and this time, my eyes met his.

His hair was plastered to his forehead and neck, water running down his expressionless face, giving me a plain view of his swiftly darkening burgundy eyes.

And yet, I wasn't scared. My heart beat steadily and my breathing stayed even. He should have scared me. I knew this. He radiated danger, power, authority, and something I couldn't place.

I was just resigned.

I could not escape, and it hadn't even crossed my mind to try. It would only make it more painful in the end.

So I didn't blink under his scrutiny. I refused to break from his capturing eyes.

He took my hand and helped me to my feet.

I don't know what he was looking for, but he must have found it. I could almost see the smile.

He pulled me towards him until my chest touched his. I couldn't free myself of his heavy stare, even if I wanted to. I simply continued to look at him.

He smirked lightly at my steady gaze and lent in slowly, waiting for me to react, not making a sound. I kept my face straight and held still, simply standing as I was. I could feel his low chuckle reverberate in my chest, a soft rumble that I could barely hear. He ran his nose softly down my neck, and my eyes slipped closed. I relaxed in the cage of his arms. Maybe it would be easy, exactly like the rain washing me away.

There would be no fight and he knew it as well as I. But it would be over soon.

He knows the ending of this story. I had known as soon as he appeared.

It is like reading the last page of a book only after reading the very beginning. I have no regrets, but I wish I could have found out what happened in the middle, what drove the story.

All I have left now is a burning curiosity and an easy comfort that fight against one another.

I know which is losing.

His hand rubbed gently up and down my side, both soft and rough. It was a contradiction that fit him perfectly. I felt his lips touch the throbbing pulse point in my neck, simply resting there. His other arm wrapped around my body, resting his hand on my lower back.

I tilted my neck to the side in an offering.

It was because I had never had a chance, not even from the very beginning. Never.

I was already dead, it was just the technicalities left.

And so I offered.

I felt his smile against my skin and I waited. The hand that was rubbing my side snaked up and wrapped itself in my hair. He sucked at my pulse point until the vein came to the surface of my translucent skin and placed a soft kiss against it.

I did not know his motivation or purpose, but it will at least be a bittersweet death. I will die in a lover's embrace, wrapped in the arms of a stranger.

I felt his lips part and I let out a soft sigh as his sharp teeth pierced my skin. No more anticipation or anxiety. No more waiting. I could feel the blood leaving my body, weakening my limbs. Soon his arms were all that kept me upright.

I could feel myself drifting away as his lips parted from my neck. I offered him a small weary smile and found enough will to touch my hand to his cheek in a parting gesture. I was fading fast and I knew it.

I could never repay him for making my death an easy one, a pleasant one.

It was a death fitting for a fading girl, a girl who sits on a bench at the park in the middle of a rainstorm, a girl who can still remember a foolish teenager and a broken promise. A girl who wanted the rain to wash her away.

My hand fell from his cheek and I simply collapsed into his arms, the smile still on my face.

It would be all right.

I felt the last unshed tear slide down my cheek and drop to the ground to mix with the rain.

It would be all right.

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	2. Musings on Death

**2- Musings on Death**

Dying is easy. Simple. It was exactly like floating, like being washed away. It was nothingness, numbness, a lack of something. My life didn't flash before my eyes, no regrets that sprang out of nowhere, not even the fear that dying should have incited. It was almost disgustingly easy: painless. And I hated it, the simplicity of it. To know I wasn't invincible. To realize that after everything, I was still only human. To admit I never amounted to anything, never reached any of my dreams, never touched anyone's life with my own. I loathed the knowledge that I had never really mattered, that my death would never be looked into because no one would question the death of a girl who was already drowning, a fractured girl who was happiest sitting on a park bench in the middle of a rainstorm without another soul in sight.

No one had fought for my life, my chance to live, not even me. And I hated myself for it. Hated that life had beaten me, left me alone with only a patchwork heart and a broken smile, and so shattered that not even I could convince myself the girl in the mirror was worth it. I could barely even remember the last person who had said I was: soft words from a sad boy with golden curls and tormented eyes, but the fragile memory had taped some of the tears in my heart, even then. But tape only holds so long. A heart is not made of puzzle pieces and does not come apart to simply be put back together in a mirror image, not in a life so full of tragedy. And at the end, all I had to show for it all was an easy death and twenty-two raindrops.

In life, all I had wanted was death, and in death, I realized all I ever really wanted was to _live._

Because sometimes, sometimes it takes dying to realize you want to live, not because you have anything important to live for, but simply because the ending doesn't truly make sense until you know the middle. Because dying is easy and painless. Because sometimes pain makes you feel alive.

And so I welcomed the pain of life with open arms, gave myself to the molten heat in my veins, and rejoiced with an agonized scream. But the pain didn't matter because it had been a choice, my choice, the first one I had had in a very long time.

I had always loved the rain, but it had always been too easy. I would have been nothing if I had let the rain wash me away. Not even a memory.

It could have been so easy. Like being washed away.

But I suppose I never did understand conformity.

So I let my world end in fire, the flames burning me away.

And yet, flames leave marks, memories, something behind. Always. Not subtle. Not calm. Not easy.

And I could feel them. They trailed my body in simmering strands. I could _feel_.

And maybe I let myself die after all.

**What do you guys think? Too much?**


	3. Reflections on Life

**3- Reflections on Life**

When my eyes opened, they opened to darkness and muted color. They opened to ash dancing through the air in mesmerizing patterns, creating a beautiful waltz. They opened to heavy purple smoke that curled and writhed across the wooden floor, winding around the metal supports. They opened to my killer and I couldn't bring myself to care.

Maybe because I had given my last breath to the flames, or maybe because I'm still broken. Maybe because dying is easy and he had already killed me. Maybe because living is the only thing that terrifies me anymore. Because living, living is staring at yourself without rose-colored glasses and still being able to look in the mirror. Because life is pain, and living is finding the beauty in it. And maybe because he was beautiful.

And he was. He was imperfection at its finest.

His hair was damp and wild, a deep chestnut color that curled in front of his rusty eyes. His jaw was square and strong, his nose straight, but his top lip was the slightest bit off center and he had exactly three freckles on the right side of his nose. He reminded me of a college football player, broad shoulders, muscled, narrow hips, and tall.

But his face was familiar. He reminded me of a face I had seen somewhere. Maybe on the television or a poster. A face that had haunted me for a long time. But instead of the sunny smile he wore a smirk, and his eyes were angry and sad. And the boy on that poster I could almost see, that boy was not scarred up and down and around again in circles from just above his left eyebrow to his second toe. That boy did not look like he had barely been pieced back together, and that boy did not look like he had almost broken. And maybe that was why in my head I called him a boy. Because in front of me stood a man who was proud of his imperfection. Someone who had survived, just barely.

He stood and waited as my eyes scanned him, following his form. Just stood there and looked at me. And I couldn't help but wonder what he saw. So I found the courage to meet his eyes, watching as he stalked sinuously closer to my still body. His hand reached out and touched the curl hanging in my eyes, twisting it between his fingers before letting it fall in front of my face once again. His hand grasped mine and pulled me from my spot on the floor, his other tilting my chin so my eyes would meet his once more. Then he stilled. We were trapped in that moment, waiting for his decision.

But he was waiting too.

And I knew. Maybe because he was my maker or maybe because of a hazy memory of a storm.

My head tilted to the side, an offering, a pledge. Because he let me die and made me realize all I wanted to do was live.

And with a small, almost knowing smile, he accepted. Placing his lips just behind my left ear, he licked it softly before biting down, marking me as his. His creation, his infant, his responsibility. And as he licked my new scar, everything felt inexplicably right. I almost smiled as he took the hand he still held and led me out of the small wooden building where I had been born. And for the first time in a long time, I smiled sincerely at the rain. _One. . . Two. . . Three. . ._


	4. The Problems With Perfection

** 4- The Problem With Perfection**

Dim stars shimmered through heavy rain and light pollution, watching my quicksilver movements. I was silent, almost as if I wasn't there, deadly. But so was he, a creature of the night. I had been staring at his black clothed back for miles now, somehow knowing that if I were to go ahead I would severely regret it. Never once did he turn around to make sure I was there, to make sure I was still following. Maybe he knew he didn't have to.

Nothing held my interest for long.

Nothing but his retreating figure held my attention.

I watched in awe as he lithely jumped into a century old oak and stood, looking out into the city. I copied his move, standing behind and slightly above him, turning my eyes to the flickering lights and straining my ears to hear the heavy traffic. He turned slowly in my peripheral and moved until his russet eyes met mine.

He motioned to the river and I, knowing what he meant, followed the silent command as quickly as I could. I scrubbed my skin furiously, getting rid of all human traces, of all the filth clinging to my body. Relaxing in the water that should have been killing me.

With that thought in mind, I stepped out of the water quickly, dripping in the murky moonlight escaping through the clouds. I had no thought for my lack of clothes or modesty, no care at all. I was comfortable in his presence, something that makes no sense. He stared for a moment, tracing his eyes along the contours of my body. I watched his slowly darkening eyes. I simply stood, waiting for the next order.

He stalked over to me, his stride mercurial and dangerous. His rough hand swept my drenched hair across my neck and once again traced the mark behind my ear. I suppressed a low growl, but I couldn't hold in the small shudder. He growled low into my ear, a deep masculine sound, it sounded both pleased and annoyed. My mind was slowly slipping away, lost in a spreading haze. His scent swirled around us, an intoxicating cloud of burning wood and roasted pecans.

He moved my arms slowly, lifting them. He outlined my features with his hand, dragging his fingers across my skin sluggishly. I could feel the textured material sliding down my skin, following the rough pads of his fingers, just feeling the dark shirt he pulled over my head. He let my arms drop and I saw the smirk, almost demonic with his black eyes. I stared back, emotionless. Waiting. He trailed his hand across my neck once more and turned his back to me.

He started running again. I followed silently behind him. A shadow.

We passed houses and streets, flying through the city. Cab drivers blinked and missed us, cars looked like armored caterpillars, slowly crawling along the asphalt.

We stopped in front of an alleyway. He flicked his eyes to me. I could hear the pumping and squishing of something I wanted. Something I needed. A need that should have disturbed me.

My eyes met his. He nodded.

I let go of my mind. I let the blankness take my body.

A muffled scream pierced the midnight silence, a scream that nobody would hear. My dark chuckle sounded foreign to my own ears. I could almost see the predatory smile on my face.

My teeth found their place quickly, parting buttery skin with a flourish. My mouth was filled with a taste unlike anything I had been expecting, experiencing a pleasure I had never felt before.

I looked up from my hunt, my kill, meeting hard black eyes. I felt the urge to growl, but didn't. Instead, my body rose fluidly, striding over to the male that dared encroach upon my kill, that had desecrated something sacred.

I stalked around him, this male, my maker. Just out of his reach. His head turned to watch me, his nostrils flaring. A dark smile crossed my lips, the blood still painting them red.

My catlike stride was traced by his stare, wary and dangerous. His skin showed his experience well enough.

I slowed as I let my eyes follow the silver patterns decorating his skin once more.

I slide closer to him, almost close enough to touch, when he surprises me and meets my stride, turning his darkening eyes to mine.

I smirk as I lay a small, deadly hand on his chest, meeting his gaze with a sultry look of my own.

And suddenly I was pressed against the wall by strong arms, black eyes looming over mine, displaying something primal and raw. And I smiled.

I smiled because my body knew what his did not.

He lent his head down, this male, and soft strands of hair drifted into my eyes. He looked down at me, hungry and out of control. I moved toward his body, pressing myself against him, and stretching, putting my bloody lips to the spot behind his ear. My tongue snaked out and I licked the spot, quickly.

He growled again. I knew what he wanted, but there was no fun to be had in so easy a catch. No honor in a forfeited battle. I had learned that lesson once.

A wicked smile crossed my lips as I ducked out from under his arm and walked away from his still figure, letting the haze recede.

He caught me quickly, faster than I expected. But I was coherent again, able to think.

His hands found my hips, pulling my back flush with his front. He traced his fingers across my stomach, getting higher with each pass. I leaned my head back into his chest.

My senses were working on red alert, his scent, his looks, his taste, his _touch. _I was in sensory overload. He chuckled against my skin, releasing me suddenly and taking my hand.

He lead me to a small house. A cottage that was permeated with the smell of perfume. A scent. A scent with the underlying tone that his held. That mine held. A kind of wildness that I couldn't identify.

We walked through, me treading behind him. He led me into a small room and told me to wait, to stay. But I had already discovered my dislike for this place. It reeked of female. This was not my territory. But I stayed, I waited. Like a good little bitch.

He closed the door and left me there.

I inspected the place. It was plain, only decorated with a dresser and a full-length mirror. Curiously, I stood in front of it, staring.

The image in the mirror was a porcelain doll, painted to precision. Snow white skin and ruby red lips framed by perfect curls in tones of coffee and auburn. Perfect.

I didn't like her.

I was wary of her pale skin, her pretty curls, her rose-petal lips.

Too pretty. Too perfect.

My vision flickered into red flames, ignited by the hatred of it all, the rage I could feel lingering from something that happened long ago. And then it all went black. Nothing. I could feel, hear, taste, but I couldn't see, wasn't in control.

It was the irony that brought me back, I think, the poetic justice.

When my vision cleared, I could trace a dull burn of pain to my wrist. And what I found made me smile.

The open bite mark was a glaring contrast to the polished white of the rest of my arm. And when I looked into the mirror, it made a difference, no matter how small. When I looked again, I saw chipped tangerine nail polish and tangled curls. I saw large crimson eyes placed where a hazy memory says there should be brown. I saw blood-spattered skin and an open bite mark.

I saw a puzzle filled in with all the wrong pieces, and it made me smile.

I looked away and snapped my gaze to the open door, to him and his approving expression. He walked over slowly, cleverly giving me a chance to see his intentions.

As he reached me, he took my hand in his and brought my wrist to his lips. He simply held it to his lips and looked at me for a while before licking the mark, closing it with his own venom. His hand slid from my wrist and traced my arm to the shoulder and from there to my collarbone. His nails dragged down the black material, splitting it as they moved. He slid it away from my body, replacing it with a loose brown tank top two sizes too big and ratty small dark green shorts. Impatient, I sigh as his hands rise to my hair, untangling it slowly and braiding it.

When he finished, he turned and started walking without a word. I followed him silently. Apparently I was ready.

He led me to a recently-made clearing, just out of sight of the others I could now smell.

He strode in silently and purposefully, ignoring the whispers of "Riley" being uttered. He put me into line and turned to speak to a dark-haired male. And then he strode away.

The other male stepped in front.

It fell silent as we waited for him to speak. Waiting for the orders. Waiting to see what we had been become a part of, the purpose of our creation.

We were recruits.

**Okay?**


	5. Unshakable

**5- Unshakable**

Bite.

Get bitten.

Bite again.

Get bitten.

Rinse and Repeat.

Diego believed in learning on the job. Trial and error. Win or die.

I made a point not to lose.

Bite.

Rip.

Get bitten.

It filled my day.

But we fought like children, none of us coherent enough to think. All we saw was red. Blood and Venom.

Bite.

Get bitten.

Bite.

Lose a limb.

But we learned to watch. Diego smiled and told us the fun was about to begin. And none of us were stupid enough to believe him. Because he believed in learning on the job. Trial and error. Win or die. But it was motivation and I had just gotten to live.

Flip.

Duck.

Bite.

Jump.

Dodge.

Get bitten.

Diego never did anything but teach the basics. He said if he taught us all the same way, we might as well rip an arm off and walk into a fire. He chuckled at our curiosity. Infants. That's what we were to him. But he humored us. Imagination, he told us. Use your head.

And so I tried to remember.

I used my imagination. And maybe it would be enough. But I wasn't afraid of dying, and maybe that was what made me unshakable, unbeatable. Because it takes dying to be able to live without fear, and few ever get that chance.

And so I was upgraded.

Five months into my new life, I became a soldier.


	6. Thoughts in Grey

**6- Thoughts in Grey**

Fire is a sick obsession. The adrenaline. The rush. The very thought of the flames claws at my mind, wanting, always wanting. A beautiful addiction. I can smell the heady scent of the smoke, watch as it curls deliciously through the air. The delicate purple vapor creates an intoxicating sense of satisfaction, the like of which only the last bit of smoldering embers can emulate. The wind howls with us, claiming victory as the ashes are carried away.

My lips curl into a small smile.

Even the other soldiers had grimaced at my delighted laughter, cringed at my excited smile. And somehow, it made the scene sweeter, knowing they would never feel its raw power.

But Riley seemed to understand my fascination with the forked flames.

He had stalked slowly closer, stopping slightly to my right. I was hyper aware of him at my side as he stood silently. We had watched the flames for a few endless moments, the dying flames still writhing. His confident touch gently turned my face toward him in a silent demand, his rusty gaze meeting my own. His fingers traced his bite mark behind my left ear as his other hand rose to my face. His blackened fingers painted ash across my features in swirling patterns, carefully designing the image. When he was satisfied with the state of his canvas, he stepped away slowly, appraising me, and a deep growl resounded in his chest, so soft I could barely hear. I echoed his low growl, the intimacy not lost on me. And then he was gone.

He would be back, though. He always is.

He understood the way no other ever would. But he is an enigma. I spend most of my time watching, but him I watch especially carefully, for he does nothing I expect. He is a mystery, one I know little of, yet one I am determined to solve.

But my time for thinking is up. The fire has burned out. He has vanished again.

I turned again to the ruined clearing, sighing.

The weak are dead, only three this time. Better than last time, I suppose.

A bittersweet success.

Arms and legs decorate the grass in a macabre pattern, the twitching limbs struggling to reach their owners. Clear congealed liquid and the red of blood stain the ground, circling the patch of scorched grass in the center.

Groaning and growling still echo among the trees, but no one pays any mind. Not when they are whole and the others are not. It is not worth the risk.

Not when I am whole and they are not.

We are enemies here.

It was the first lesson he taught us, the first time he welcomed us to hell. The first time we were not merely recruits, but soldiers.

He cast shadows across a world that is no longer black and white, it never was, but in death it is easier to see that not everything is so simple.

Right and wrong all lies in perspective.

Everything he taught was built upon that simple lesson.

We no longer had the luxury of thinking in black and white, but he always had an answer.

He told us to think in shades of grey.

We fought through the haze of our minds to understand what he meant by that simple statement. It seemed easy, really. But I couldn't decipher what he was getting at, what the point was.

His gaze never wavered as he waited. He knew we were confused. We knew he would not be explaining. If we couldn't understand, there was no point in telling us. And so he continued to watch us as we attempted to configure the puzzle he had given us.

It wasn't as if it came suddenly, like a veil had been lifted. I had to think, to look, really look. It took some minutes before I understood. And I marveled at his logic as the pieces fell in place. He smirked at the spark in my eye and inclined his head forward in a minute nod as my vision darted across the others.

We were his example.

We were the ones left behind, the ones no one wanted, the ones no one would miss. So he chose us, the ones willing to forget, to let go of our blurred connections to a life before this. I had lived my own nightmare, and so I was handpicked to die, sentenced to death because my face would not appear on posters or in the newspaper. Because I had no one who cared. He killed me because I was sitting on a park bench in the middle of a rainstorm and I couldn't fault him for it.

He had no remorse as we lost ourselves to the night, as we became creatures of myth and darkness. As we suffered. As we fought. As we died. And why would he when we had already been living in the shadows of mortal life?

Riley is more clever than I had given him credit for.

He made us to be killers, deadly by design.

He made us to be enemies.

He made us to fight.

He made us because we had already lived through one hell. We were hardened to the horrors of the world because we had survived them. And so we granted no sympathy to the weak.

It was the lesson we knew better than anything else.

It was an opponent or us, so we were enemies.

Friendship is dangerous. Loyalty, a weakness. Trust is foolish.

We are enemies.

He made us to be soldiers because he knew our decision. He had made the same one himself.

Me or them.

And so I chose me.

The fire became a part of me. The exhilaration of feeling that utter power.

I thrive where others tend to wither. I always had. And this life is no different. Why should it be?

And so I smile in delight while others shudder and laugh when others would scream.

I smile because I learned the first lesson.


	7. The Color of a Memory

**Chapter 7- The Color of a Memory**

Memories. The blasted little half-thoughts that haunt you for the rest of your life. That fill you with regret and longing and tears. The flash of a smile, the ghost of a touch, a whisper of words. The images you reach out for but can never fully repossess. And the nightmares you never wish to see again, but can't quite vanish from the mind. Terror makes things seem so much clearer. I sometimes wish I could forget half as many as the amount I can't remember. And maybe that's why I'm not allowed to dream. Dreams are for the living.

It was our second lesson.

Dreams are for the living.

Because dreams are for people who move forward, who live, who breathe, who _change. _Because hope doesn't help the dying and broken dreams are all that console the dead. And maybe we could call him cynical and jaded. But mostly, he's_ experienced_ within this world, and maybe, just maybe he knows best. Maybe, it was more than a lesson: a warning. Dreams are for the living.

It wasn't something drilled into us. Not like the first lesson, which, though subtle at first, became a mantra, a way of living, a state of being. No. The second lesson was said in a sad whispering drawl, punctuated by the sound of breaking hearts. Because he spoke with more than truth. Because dreams are for the living and he knew better than the rest.

I learned the second lesson. Understood it. Kept it. So maybe that was why he was so surprised when he found me. His child. His soldier. His very best. Because despite all the things that are his, this is mine. The quiet moment when I can stare at the twinkling lights of the city in the distance and _remember._ And maybe, maybe he understood. He was silent as he sat next to me, leaning against the rough grey bark of the tree I had chosen. He stared out at the horizon, simply sitting. And I knew what he was offering. It was something so simple, so obscene that I couldn't help what happened then. Because trust comes in colors and he was transparent. So unlike the past. Untainted. And so I explained. Because trust comes in colors and theirs was blue.

I stared out at the flicking lights of the city, hoping this would not be a mistake. It had been so long since I trusted someone. So very long. And even longer since I had wanted to. And maybe it was the bittersweet sentiment of the whole thing that made me tell him. Made him understand. Because I wasn't spilling memories for him. I was letting him understand _me. _And that was something no one had bothered to do in longer than I care to remember. Because the last one was a pretty boy with amber eyes who called me special. And I had believed him.

So he sat as I talked. As I let go of my hard kept secrets. As I gave up the pretenses of my excuses.

"I was young. And I was in love. He broke my heart." He looked at me then. Asking. Digging. Wondering. "He was perfect to my seventeen-year-old eyes. Beautiful. I fancied myself in love. And I thought he loved me back. He told me he had dreamt of a girl like me."

His eyes flashed then, darkening to a dull scarlet with understanding. I merely looked back, waiting, as he spoke. His lips parted softly, barely brushing one another as he formed his sentence. It was a soft comment, no malice intended. He simply said: "Dreams are meant for the living." It made me smile, the hoarse whisper he spoke in along with the words themselves.

My lips curled themselves into a rueful smile. "I know. But he said he loved me. And he was all the more cruel for it." He carefully shifted, curling his body close and slightly behind my own, still relaxing against the tree.

"Beautiful lies are still poisonous and empty promises are never more than air." His voice fanned across my neck from his new position. His breath sent a tremor along my spine, one he would have noticed. So I continued.

"And then he was gone. He told me I would forget in time. And believe me, I wanted to. I tried so hard to forget the hurt. The pain. But I knew then what it felt to be discarded, to be worthless. And he took my family with him. The one I had coveted since my childhood. Simply swept them away. Because, for a little while, I forgot they were his family first. They would always be his before mine." His arms, which had slipped around my waist, held me tight. And for the first time, I realized there was not another in sight. It was just us. And that was why he had his armed wrapped around a fragile newborn with scars hidden by a flawless mask. It was just us. "I was alone. Alone with his secret, never quite knowing if I was going mad. And then, life just seemed to fade. But I was not ready to give up. I fought. I fought so hard and it never did any good. They were all killed. My family. The friends I had left. All gone. In an instant. And it was all my fault. How could it not be? They were innocent. And I was a murderer."

"A murderer by circumstance is close enough to a victim to absolve you of your guilt, if you so wish it." And he waited. Seeming anxious for my response, he touched my chin and looked at me. And he must have seen the answer before I said it, but I felt the need to say it anyway. And with a far off gaze into the city, I told him.

"But I do not wish it." My whisper was so quiet he had to strain to hear. And he smiled a small, sad smile. "I do not wish to forget my mistakes. It would tarnish what little memory I have of them. Even if memories are death for the dead. I wish to see them as they were, without covering their images in lies to placate my conscience. It would be a dishonor."

"It is a brave thing, to refuse to lie to one's self. We ourselves are often what scare us the most." I echoed his smile as he spoke.

"But I can still look myself in the mirror. In the end, that is all I can ever hope for." I got up with that parting sentence, but he had a last question.

"Why did you choose to tell me?" And then I genuinely smiled for the first time in a long time.

I let my eyes search his as I answered, knowing he had the potential to understand. So I spoke simply and vaguely, reminiscent of his own speech as he taught us the first lesson. I smiled a slow smile and simply said: "Trust comes in colors."


End file.
